


On Bugs and Back Rubs

by SydneyMo



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Massage, Napoleon Solo Ships Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller, Sexual Tension, Solo is such a cad, Undercover, but we love him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 10:05:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14952593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SydneyMo/pseuds/SydneyMo
Summary: With bugs placed around their hotel room and orders not to remove them, Gaby and Illya must play the mating game behind closed doors. Even with an audience.





	On Bugs and Back Rubs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rebelliousrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelliousrose/gifts).



> A gift for Rebelliousrose for the Summer Solstice Gift Exchange 2018 <3
> 
> Special thanks to Diadema both for the title AND beta work!

It had been three days since Illya had discovered the bug in his and Gaby’s hotel room. It had been about 71 hours and 56 minutes since Waverly had ordered him to leave the bug where it was so as not to alert the THRUSH agent, who incidentally had put it there, that something was amiss. And it had been exactly 71 hours and 54 minutes since Illya had felt even remotely comfortable.

He knew what his handler was planning; the hotel room had to be like any other hotel room that’s occupied by a recently engaged couple so as not to arouse any suspicion. Finding a bug and destroying it would, of course, be very suspicious. So Illya grudgingly acquiesced, Gaby shrugged, and the two of them had been putting on an elaborate performance art piece for an unknown number of neo-Nazis ever since.

“Darling.”

Illya looked up from his chess game to glance at his ‘fiancé’. He would never admit, either out loud or to himself, that his heart flipped at such a simple word.

“I’m going to order tea from room service,” Gaby said. “Did you want some?”

“No, thank you.” Room service was code for calling Solo. It was nothing important, Illya knew, just a quick check-in to make sure everything was running smoothly on the Americans end. If it had been an emergency, she would have ordered coffee.

Illya allowed his mind to wander as he heard Gaby pad away from him and dial the phone on the front table. As far as missions went, this one was rather tame. If he didn’t think about it for long, it was almost like he and Gaby really _were_ engaged. They really were visiting Paris simply to see the sights and not to gather intel on the emerging fascist organization, and the terms of endearment really were said with love, and not to enforce their cover.

A quiet knock at the door interrupted his musings.

“Hmm,” Gaby, who had seated herself opposite Illya in an overstuffed armchair hummed idly. “That was quick. Shall I-”

“I’ll get it.” Illya offered, standing and stretching his arms above his head before walking to the door. Unsurprisingly, Solo stood at the doorway dressed in the hotel’s uniform carrying a tray that not only contained a note written in code to keep the duo up to date, but also two cups of chamomile tea in what appeared to be very expensive china cups.

“Your tea, _Monsieur,”_ Illya rolled his eyes at Solo’s perfect, but no less irritating, French accent. Before Illya could take the tray and close the door, however, Napoleon beckoned him further into the hallway with a quick jerk of his head.

“Yes?”

“Just checking in to see how married life is suiting you,” Solo began, eyeing Illya’s typical outfit of dark turtleneck and dress pants with obvious disdain. “Clearly your fashion hasn’t improved.”

“We are not married,” Illya stated dryly, ignoring Solo’s jab.

“That’s not what I came here for.” Illya knew he was going to give himself a headache if he kept rolling his eyes that far back into his head, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“Make it quick, Cowboy, this is supposed to be innocent room service visit.”

“You need to kick it up a notch.” Solo explained hastily. “You two sound like boorish old women, not a young couple desperately in love.”

“Kick-”

“Yes, yes,” Solo waved his hand impatiently, interrupting the Russians unfinished question.

“Woo her, shower her with compliments and mindless dribble, thump the bed around a little bit, I don’t know,”

Illya raised his eyebrow at the last statement.

“You know what I mean,” Napoleon shoved the tray into Illya’s arms, turning to leave. “But you have to make it seem like you’re _actually_ engaged or someone’s going to get suspicious.”

Illya nodded tersely, and stiffly walked back into the hotel room, shutting the door behind him.

“Problems, dearest?” Gaby queried, not looking up from the magazine she was flipping through.

“Just a small issue with the tea.” Gaby looked up. “Chamomile, not magnolia bark.” He explained, placing the tray on the small coffee table between them and sitting down hesitantly on the edge of the sofa. Illya knew Solo was right; the past two evenings had consisted of solitary chess matches and lengthy, albeit dull, conversations regarding the typical Parisian tourist sites, but nothing that would hint to their supposedly loving relationship.

“Well, tea is tea, I’m sure I’ll manage.” Gaby turned the page and reached down to take a sip from her cup. She grimaced and quickly put it back down again. “I stand corrected.”

Illya didn’t respond, trying desperately to come up with a way to keep their covers, and his dignity, intact. Gaby, clearly expecting some sort of response from him, glanced up with an eyebrow raised askance.

“It is getting late,” Illya started, clearing his throat when his voice betrayed him and came out hoarse and unfamiliar.

“Yes,” Gaby agreed slowly as she stared at him, attempting to understand his recent change in demeanor.

“I think I will go to bed,” he tried again, hoping against hope that Solo hadn’t reached his own room yet and wasn’t currently listening to his ridiculous attempts at seduction. “Perhaps, you will join me?”

Gaby’s eyebrows shot up, her mouth opening slightly. Illya put a finger to his lips, gesturing with his free hand to the locations of the various bugs placed throughout their living and bedroom.  
“I’m not sure I’m all that tired yet,” Gaby said, understanding Illya’s hasty and failed attempt at sign language.

“We do not have to sleep.”

“What else did you have in mind?”

Illya hesitated, his brain suddenly empty. It was one thing to playact, hold hands in public and smile at all the right moments, but it was another thing entirely to have a group of men, including Cowboy, listen to what was supposedly a very intimate moment.

Gaby blessedly took the lead, seeming to sense Illya’s discomfort. She stood and walked around the coffee table, the tea forgotten and took Illya’s hand in her own. “I have an idea.”

“Oh?” he allowed himself to be lead towards the bedroom, silently praying that Gaby couldn’t feel the thundering of his pulse through his turtleneck.

“You’ve been very tense lately,” She began and pushed Illya’s shoulders gently, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed and letting her voice drop to a husky whisper, just loud enough that the bugs could still pick up her words. “How about I give you a massage, hmm?”

Illya cleared his throat, his mouth going dry. “I think this…will be nice.”

  
“Good,” Gaby was practically purring. She threw a wink at Illya and leaned in close, her lips just brushing his ear. “Do try and relax, they can only hear us, not see us.”

He nodded, hardly daring to breathe much less allow his muscles to slacken.

Despite that particular fact, Illya couldn’t help but feel as if he was participating in some form of voyeurism. He felt dirty, unclean, and yet a secret part of him thrilled at this game they were allowed to play. He wasn’t Illya Kuryakin, the KGB’s best and _strictly_ Gaby’s coworker, he was Illya Egorov, architect extraordinaire and Gaby’s future husband.

And damn it all if he wouldn’t allow himself to jump at this chance.

“You are sure _you_ would not like massage? I have often been told I am good with my hands.” Gaby laughed at that, seating herself behind him and placing her knees on either side of Illya’s hips.

“You’ll need to take your shirt off.”

“Just my shirt?”

“Don’t worry, the rest will come later.”

Illya rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the smile that was creeping its way across his face.  
“It is unfair for me to be only one undressed. If my shirt is off, yours should be as well.”

He received a punch in the shoulder for that, but it was worth it to see the glimmer of laughter in her eyes as she leaned over his shoulder to look at him.

“I think that can be arranged.”

Illya began to unbutton his shirt as Gaby did the same; she had a modest camisole underneath her striped pajama top, but only the two of them knew this. With a flourish, Gaby tossed her shirt across the room, making sure the flutter of fabric was clearly audible.

“Now,” Gaby sat back on her heels, her hands skimming over Illya’s neck and shoulders. “Where does it hurt?”

Illya closed his eyes at her touch and breathed in deeply. “Ah-”

“Here?” she asked, interrupting him and pressing her thumb into a knot on his neck making Illya hiss.

“Here?” she asked again, this time moving her hands to kneed at a particularly tense muscle between his shoulders.

“Or,” Gaby tried again, gliding her fingertips down his spine to press against a muscle in his lower back that she knew he had pulled during their last mission. “Maybe lower?”

Illya couldn’t stop the groan that escaped him, knowing full well what it would sound like to the uninformed listener.

“Yes,” Illya allowed, shifting to lean forward and allow her better access to his strained tissue. “It definitely hurts there.”

“Poor baby,” Gaby cooed sympathetically. Illya chanced a glance over his shoulder at her to see that, despite her tone of voice, she really was huddled over his lower back, anxiously trying to find a way to release the tension in his muscles without causing him further pain.

“I think it would be easier if I lied down, yes?”

Gaby hummed in agreement, scooting across the bed to let Illya stretch himself over the mattress and lay on his stomach.

Gaby hesitated. It was Illya’s lower back that had suffered the most damage and she knew firsthand that he had refused to seek medical treatment even after jumping off a roof to land on a balcony two and a half stories below. She couldn’t work from the side, that would agitate them more. With a shrug, Gaby seated herself on Illya’s thighs, leaning over him to press both palms on his back and whisper in his ear.

“I’ll mimic whatever noises you make,” she mumbled, glad that he couldn’t see the blush creeping across her cheeks. “To fool the bug, I mean,” she added, her blush increasing. “Just…tap me if I’m hurting you, okay?”

Illya scoffed softly into the pillow, but nodded, not opening his eyes.

Gaby tentatively pressed the heels of her hands against Illya’s lower back and began to massage the muscles there, her brow furrowing as she felt just how deep the tension went. Illya groaned aloud when she dug her thumbs on either side and rolled the muscle in slow circles.

“Is this okay?” She asked, tilting her head to the side to look at Illya’s expression.

“Is perfect.” He grunted, shifting slightly and more than a little grateful he was on his stomach so Gaby couldn’t see just _how_ perfect the massage was.

“Good,” she hummed, moving forward to sit further up on Illya’s thighs and press deeper into his back. Illya moaned again.

“If you keep doing that,” he began, one eye opening to peer at Gaby with a sly smile. “I cannot be responsible for reactions.”

“Promise?”

Illya began to laugh but it petered off into a huff of pleasure, his eyes squeezing shut once more.

Gaby eyed the bug she knew was in the lamp off to her right before leaning over Illya to whisper, “How long do you think we should keep this up?”

“I would not mind if you continued for next ten years.” He whispered back, allowing a grin to sneak across his face.

“Do you think it’s believable though?” She whispered again, continuing to kneed at the tension around Illya’s spine. “I mean, do you think they’re buying it?”

“You think we should be more convincing?”

“I think so, I wonder-” Gaby let out a startled gasp as Illya suddenly turned over, dragging her with him to pin her hands above her head underneath him.

“It is possible they have thermal imager,” Illya looked almost apologetic as he shrugged, but Gaby noticed a mischievous glint in his eye.

“A what?” It didn’t escape either of their notice that her response was a much breathier whisper than was normal.

“Heat camera. Body heat is detected and represented on screen where outline of people can be shown.” Illya explained, jerking his head in the direction of the open French doors that lead to a balcony.

Although they were on the eighth floor, their curtains were closed, and he doubted very much that THRUSH had their hands on such new and prototypical technology, he convinced himself it was a valid precaution. “Improbable, but not impossible.”

“Oh.” Gaby pursed her lips, thinking. “Well, in that case…”

To say that Illya was startled when Gaby freed her hands to wrap them around his neck and pull him into a passionate kiss would have been the largest understatement in the entirety of the Cold War. His mind went blank, his eyes drifted closed, and he thanked whatever deity had been responsible for this particular happenstance. They had kissed on missions before, but it was always demure, sedated. Nothing like this. Illya responded in kind, reaching one arm underneath the small of Gaby’s back to pull her taut against him, and broke away only to kiss her neck with a sort of religious fervor. Gaby moaned, arching further into his hold and let her head fall back onto the pillow.

“I think this is working, yes?” Illya murmured into her skin, accentuating his words with soft presses of his lips against her collarbone. “Convincing.”

Gaby let out a breathless laugh, bringing his head back to kiss him fully on the lips. “I would say so,” she allowed, breaking away and reaching her legs up to twine around his hips. “I can do you one better, though.”

Before Illya could reply, Gaby shoved her weight hard against him, flipping them over and landing neatly on Illya’s lap in an almost comical role reversal of their previous position.

“I cannot say I am complaining,” Illya allowed with a groan, reveling in the feel of her nails tracing a path down his chest and over his stomach. “But, perhaps-” He kissed her again, not present enough in his own head to feel embarrassed either by their show nor the notion that Gaby could very obviously feel how much she affected him.

It didn’t seem to bother her in the least, however, as she ground her hips against his own, a soft moan escaping her lips as she returned to him with vigor. She was everywhere, invading all of his senses as she kissed him, her hands never settling in one place long enough for him to capture. The torch that he had carried for her since Rome erupted between them in hot, fiery desire with enough intensity that Illya was sure they would set the furniture ablaze.

It was then, in the worst possible moment, a knock could be heard from their hotel room door. Gaby froze, hands braced on either side of Illya’s head.

“Were you expecting visitors, dearest?” her tone was calm, but her swollen lips and heaving chest proved that she was as affected by their romantic entanglement as he was.

“No.” Illya made to get up, patting Gaby affectionately on the rear before standing and reaching under the mattress for the firearm he knew was hidden there. Gaby reached for her own gun, stashed in a hidden compartment of the book on her bedside table.

“With the compliments of the hotel,” came a familiar French-accented voice from the hallway.

Gaby groaned, this time in annoyance, and let the book and gun fall back onto the bedside table before marching across the room, Illya close on her heels, to throw open the door on her American partner.

“What do you want?” she hissed, ignoring the pointed look he gave her as he took in her rumpled clothing and messy hair.

“Didn’t you read my note?” he asked, stepping inside the hotel room and making himself right at home, even grabbing an apple from a fruit basket near the door and taking a bite before seating himself on the living room couch.

“The strike team moved on the THRUSH agents about thirty minutes ago,” he explained through a mouthful of fruit. “I was sent up here to retrieve you both. We’re headed back to London in two hours.”

Gaby’s jaw dropped. She whirled around and snatched up the notepad Solo had left earlier to quickly translate the message contained within its bright yellow pages.

“But…you…” Illya couldn’t seem to form a coherent thought as he stared first at Solo and then at the notepad over Gaby’s shoulder.

“Was I interrupting something?”

Napoleon looked between his partners, eyebrows raised, and an expression of innocence etched across his features. Illya, still unable to form any words, chose wisely to take out his anger on their belongings as he began gathering their things and shoving them into the nearest suitcase. Gaby, however, closed her eyes and breathed slowly and deeply through her nose.

“Solo, go help Illya.” She began, not bothering to open her eyes.

“Where are you going?” he asked, standing and taking another bite of his commandeered apple.

“I am going to take a _very_ long and _very_ cold shower.”


End file.
